Cradle and All
by Gandalf3213
Summary: The abuse started years before Buffy came to Sunnydale, but by the time anyone noticed Xander was sure he deserved the name-calling and punches. Four people who noticed Xander's home was not a pleasant one, and one person who managed to help. Companion to "Down Will Come." One-shot


**_Xander: _**_Well, I'll be enjoying my annual Christmas Eve camp-out. See, I take my sleeping bag outside and I go to sleep on the grass.  
**Willow: **Sounds fun.  
**Xander: **Yeah, I like to look at the stars, you know? Feel the whole nature vibe.  
**Cordelia****: **I thought you slept outside to avoid your family's drunken Christmas fights.  
_

.***.

It would be three years until Xander and Willow had their worlds turned inside out by a cute blond from out of town. At thirteen, their problems were mostly of the opposite-gender type, and the gym-class-is-trying-to-kill-me type, and the school-might-be-making-me-stupider type. They had their own little trio, with Jesse, who was just barely athletic enough to pass as cool, rounding out their three. And, mostly, they were shatteringly happy as only barely-teenagers can be.

Willow was growing first. The summer had marked the first time she hadn't stripped to her underwear and jumped into the pond with the boys. She'd left a tank top on, and you could see the little bumps (that wouldn't get much bigger.) And Xander and Jesse were intrigued. They were all legs and big hands, puppies growing with their limbs first. Xander was the runt of the pack, smaller even than Willow, though if boys were judged like dogs, by their feet and hands, he should be the biggest.

"You can't sleep at Willow's anymore," Jesse said one day as they walked back from the pond carrying their clothes. Xander would spend the rest of the afternoon in Jesse's sunlit kitchen, getting teased by his older brothers and eating the fresh-baked bread his mother was always putting in front of them.

Xander frowned. "I don't sleep at Willow's anyway! She's a girl!"

"Yeah, you do. You get on her bus sometimes." Jesse never let him get away with bullshit. He was trying to convince Xander that he was a terrible liar. "But did you see she's starting to get..." he lowered his voice, "_breasts_."

"So?" Xander wasn't ready to give Willow's room up. It was his last resort, and he tried not to go over too often. He had rules, now that he was getting older. No more than once a month. Sneak out of his house as quietly as possible and make absolutely no noise when scaling the tree and knocking on Willow's window. He could only go when he felt so scared about staying in his house that he shook the bed with his shivering fear. And, lately, afraid that Willow was just being nice, that she actually resented his late-night visits and would one day tell him to go away and stop their friendship and that was almost worse than letting his dad knock him around, he'd been huddling in the space under the bushes. He was still small enough to fit in amongst the thorns, but he was, supposedly, getting taller, and winter was definitely coming. "It's not like I'm sleeping on her breasts."

"Just come over my house," Jesse said. "I thought we were best friends."

"We are!" But he didn't want to cry in front of Jesse, and he often cried like a baby when he was with Willow. And: "But you sleep with your brothers."

"They'll understand." Jesse was staring at the bruise on the curve between Xander's shoulder and his neck, the one that was deep and painful, black and purple and shaped like a hand.

Xander pulled his shirt up and looked away from Jesse, off the road at the small plants and grasses turning pale green, all the life bleached out of them by the beating July sun. "They might tell your parents."

A strange emotion passed over Jesse's face, protectiveness and anger, "Maybe...Xan, maybe we should tell my parents. Maybe then you can live with me, and we can be brothers."

"We are brothers," Xander said, repeating what he and Jesse had said for years. Brothers forever.

"Yeah, but," the thirteen-year-old kicked rocks down the path. Jesse gripped his bundle of clothes tighter. "I really don't think...if you keep staying with your folks they might hurt you. Bad."

"It's not so bad." This was a familiar panic. "They're my parents, Jesse. They love me." Even as he said it he knew it was a lie. But god, he wished his parents loved him. He wished they cared about him enough to stop hurting him, to stop taking their bad marriage and crappy finances out on him.

Jesse had never been great in the way of perception about other's feelings, but he backed off now. "Okay. We won't tell. But if you want to sleep over my house sometimes..."

"Okay," Xander said, to make his friend stop talking.

He slept at Jesse's house every Friday and most Saturdays for three years. They waged prank wars against his easy-going older brothers and watched all of his father's tapes-including the unlabeled ones in the back, and they decided together that sex looked almost as scary and difficult as ghostbusting. Jesse's mom always gave him food, so much food that he ate well until Monday or Tuesday, and if anyone noticed Xander's bruises he blamed it on roughhousing with Jesse and, later, his job at an animal clinic.

By the time he was fourteen, he began to understand that he had more than one place to hide.

By the time he was fifteen, Jesse's family was becoming his own, and he thought making it until eighteen wouldn't be so hard after all.

By the time he was sixteen, Jesse was dead.

.***.

Two years before Giles noticed anything was amiss with one of his students, Xander went over to Buffy's house for a Spanish project and stuck around until eleven, twelve, one o'clock.

Joyce, after wrestling between kicking a (gangly, loud) boy out of the house and embarrassing her daughter, erred on the side of making sure the move didn't cause her burgeoning hoodlum stress and went to bed just after ten. Even Buffy, as the night wore on, started wondering what Xander was trying. His crush on her was obvious and pointless, and she was the Slayer and no guy could pull anything and it was laughable to think that Xander would try but you never knew.

Except Xander wasn't doing anything except standing in her kitchen and eating and trying to draw Buffy into conversation. "I mean, history isn't my favorite subject either, but my boss-my old boss, I guess-he was about a hundred years old and made it interesting. Plus he liked to order pizza if when it got late."

"Your old boss?"

"In every sense of the word," Xander said, throwing a grape into his mouth.

"No," Buffy shook her head, "I mean, what'd you do to make it not your current boss?"

"Oh," Xander paused. "Well, I really liked Mr. Lanningham and the animals but my hours were pretty late and recently there's been way more interesting, save-the-world business going on at night."

Buffy sighed, "You shouldn't've quit your job to be a Scooby, Xan."

"Not _quit_ so much as_ asked not to come back_-even cute little old men need to make a profit, I guess. And this was all before I learned Slayer acolyte is not a paying gig."

"So what's your job now?"

"Apparently screaming and running away from vampires," Xander said, and then covered his mouth and looked at the staircase. "Sorry! I meant our nighttime friends." He picked off the last grape and frowned at it. "Getting a new job that has extremely flexible hours is harder than expected."

Buffy noticed Xander's disappointment and retrieved a box of pretzels from the back of the cabinet-she was pretty sure they'd been in the back of the cabinet before the move too. She tried one for herself and spit it out in the sink. She grinned at Xander, who was still staring at the pretzels. "They're great. Not years old at all."

"I'll take 'em." Xander stuffed a couple in his mouth, and Buffy made a mental note to keep boys around more. They'd probably wipe out even the questionable orange juice and dented cans of soup. Xander looked like he was determined to prove all the stereotypes about males and their bottomless stomachs true, and noticed Buffy's slightly sick expression. "That's how Willow looks too. You don't mind me stealing your pretzels? And hanging out until-" he looked at the clock and blanched, "Twelve-forty-eight. Jesus. Sorry. I'll take off."

"If you don't eat those they're going in the trash," Buffy warned.

"Well. Waste not, want not. And I want."

Buffy sat on the counter, her feet kicking the cabinet the way a little girl's does when she'd bored and waiting for a taste of the cookie dough. She'd never had male friends before. Even in second grade, when boys started to like her, she'd date them in that little-kid way, holding hands and passing notes. She preferred females for companionship, girls who played house and Legos and talked about how boys were both gross and too pretty for their own good.

And now that she'd moved to Sunnydale everything had changed. She was supposed to be friends with Cordelia and the cheerleader chicks, not a nerd and a dork. Willow was open as sunshine, twice as nice, and made Buffy wonder if she'd missed out by not noticing the nerds in her old school. And Xander was...he was shuttered. It wasn't a thing you noticed after only a day or a week, but if you talked to him, you realized he didn't tell you _anything_. Not about his home or family, or the future. The only past he seemed interested in was his shared school one with Willow. But Buffy hadn't even known Xander had been holding down a job until now, five months into their friendship. "Did you like working with animals?"

"Sure. Who doesn't love animals? I actually came up with an equation for it: the cuteness of a pet is directly related both to how fat and how fluffy it is."

Buffy smirked and Xander seemed satisfied, eating yet more very stale pretzels. Buffy wondered aloud, "Were you gonna buy one of these fat, fluffy animals? Because I really can't see you as a cat owner."

"Uh...well, no," Xander looked embarrassed, and he just didn't do embarrassed. "I was saving up for a car, which is great because I had those...yeah. Savings. I gotta pay rent."

"Your parents charge you rent?" Buffy nearly yelled, then lowered her voice, remembering sleeping Joyce. "Seriously? But you're only sixteen!"

Xander shrugged, "They got kind of bored with raising a parasite. It's no big deal, really. I've been paying rent since I got into high school. It's a low fee-three hundred bucks a month, utilities and furniture included."

He looked embarrassed again, and Buffy knew she should change the subject. But she couldn't resist one more question: "What happens when you can't pay?"

Xander put the pretzels down and shot Buffy a quick smile. "Don't worry about if, Buff. You want to do a quick patrol and walk a little damsel like me home? Who knows what creepy crawly wants a taste of the Xan Man."

.***.

A year before Xander would admit everything he'd been keeping bottled up in one night, he brought Cordelia over his house and, foolishly, thought it would be okay.

It was, for a while. His mother made them tea and admired Cordelia's dress and said several times that her slovenly son was not good enough for such a stunning beauty. Cordelia heard only the compliment and not the casual derision towards her boyfriend and smiled and ate a cookie without counting the calories.

They spent most of the afternoon on the front porch, which had a big swing and a helpful table to put their glasses on-Mrs. Harris kept bringing them sweet tea, always finding something new to say when she came out. "Oh, Cordelia, your hair is just lovely. Xander, how'd you get such a pretty girl?"

"Withcraft, ma."

"He didn't _get_ me," Cordelia corrected, sipping the tea and grinning at Xander over the brim. "I just let him think he did so that he gives me stuff."

"Smart girl," Mrs. Harris said, beaming, "Such a smart, beautiful girl. Why are you going out with my son? He's absolutely worthless."

This went on as the sun went down and Xander went inside and got them a blanket. He held Cordelia's hand under the patchwork and they talked about where they would want to be if they didn't live in Sunnydale. Cordelia opted for LA, or Paris in a pinch, glamor and high living the big draws. Xander, who had spent the night before being chased by a vampire, said that he'd have to consult Giles on which place was furthest away from a Hellmouth. Cordelia laughed at that, and Xander grinned incredulously. He still couldn't believe he could make a girl like Cordy laugh. He still couldn't believe he could make any girl laugh.

Then it started to get really dark, and they started kissing, and Cordelia told him that she had to leave, really, she had homework and really needed some sleep and, anyway, what if his mom saw them necking on the porch like a couple of...

"Teenagers?" Xander suggested, "Come on, it's the one time in our lives we're allowed to make out in public. Everyone has a bad opinion of teenagers anyway. Let's give them something to talk about."

"Why don't you get my jacket from inside," Cordelia suggested, "And we can find a dark path while you walk me home?"

Getting the jacket and then running to the bathroom because a pitcher of sweet tea just went right through him, is the only reason why Xander was inside when his father came home. But when he got back out to the porch and saw Cordelia standing tense under Mr. Harris's lewd stare, he spoke up. "Hey, dad. I see you've met Cordelia."

His father, a huge, disgruntled man who was already drunk at seven o'clock and holding another beer in his hand, barely turned his eyes on his son. "She claims she's your girlfriend."

"Really?" Xander looked at Cordelia, eyes dancing. She hadn't confirmed their relationship status with him yet. "I mean, yeah. We've been seeing each other a couple of months now."

"Thank god for that," Mr. Harris punched Xander's arm in a way that might have looked friendly but actually made his nerves go dead from shoulder to hand. "He palled around with this boy for years," Mr. Harris explained to Cordelia. "I don't know what I would have done if he'd turned out queer."

"Well," Cordelia said, looking incredibly uncomfortable. "He's not."

"You fuck her yet?" Mr. Harris asked, and Xander turned to him incredulously. "She looks good enough to eat."

"Xander," Cordelia said, her voice low and pleading, "I'm going home."

"I'm walking you," Xander said, edging around his father, who had three inches and a hundred pounds on him. "Dad, why don't you stay on the porch until I come home?" His mother was no saint, but he hated to come home to her crying.

His dad grunted and sat on the porch swing, setting the beer between his knees and looking blearily after the couple fleeing the house. "You gonna put on a show for me? Kiss her!"

Xander walked faster, draping Cordelia's coat around her shoulders as they went. She was shaking. "I'm so, so sorry," Xander said. "God, I wish I'd told him off. I just didn't...he might have gotten worse."

"That's your dad?"

"Supposedly. Jesus, you're shaking. Let's sit down. Let's just...can I hold you? I hate him, I can't believe he said that in front of you."

They sat on a curb several blocks away from the Harris house and Cordelia leaned against Xander. He waited for her to break up with him. That was the only logical response. She _was_ too beautiful, too smart, to be dating his brand of family drama. But she just wrapped a hand around his waist and put her mouth near his ear. "I'm so sorry you have to go back there."

Xander wanted to tell her that it wasn't that bad, that he was better at avoiding the physical abuse now that he was six feet tall and often out of the house, that his parents were actually decent people. Instead, he just murmured, "Yeah. Me too."

.***.

It was a month before Xander's parent's anniversary, a month before Giles would turn over his hand and see the scars, and Xander had just fled the house without a jacket. Also, it was January.

Even California got cold in January, which he had completely forgotten about, and he got to the cemetery before the events of the night really sunk in and he let himself lean against a headstone. He stayed like that for a long time. He wondered how long it took to freeze to death. Most of him knew that it was pretty impossible to die in a forty-degree night, but a small part of him wanted to. It would be nice to just sit down and not have to get up. There'd be nothing of him left. It wouldn't even be like when Buffy died and he, Xander, had breathed her back to life, because that death had bred Kendra, had bred Faith. Xander's death would mean nothing. And he'd see Jesse again...

That made him lever himself back upright. He'd left with the intention of going to Nicco, one of Jesse's older brothers. He'd been in college when they were in high school and was now a real estate agent with a pregnant wife. Nicco was always unreservedly kind to Xander whenever he showed up at his front door, giving him the couch and a pillow and usually breakfast in the morning. They'd talk about Jesse. He never talked about Jesse anymore. The subject made Willow teary.

He was running to Nicco and not Willow because of Oz, because even though Xander had blown it with Cordy, Oz and Willow were good and golden and he didn't want to mess it up. Still, he wished for a soft voice and a steady arm. And a blanket.

"Hey."

Xander jumped, tripped over his feet, and fell headfirst over a headstone. Angel stood over him impassively, one eyebrow raised. "Hello," Xander groaned, trying to sound tough and not pained, "I totally have a stake on me."

"No you don't," Angel said. Xander had never learned how to lie.

"Well, don't sneak up on defenseless fellows and they won't threaten to end your immortal ass."

"You're in a pleasant mood," Angel said, sticking out his hand. And Xander really didn't want to take it, but the ground was wet and cold. He let Angel pull him up and hissed as the vampire strength pulled at all his sore muscles. "You're helping us patrol?"

"Patrol?" The last people he wanted to see right now were Buffy and Faith doing the dynamic duo thing. They liked to make him the butt of the joke and he was completely okay with that except for right now, when he wasn't sure if he could smile and banter like everything was okay. He'd be okay in the morning. "Umm...yeah, no. I'm trying to get to the other side of town, actually."

Angel kept a hand on his arm and was looking at him in a way that made Xander suspect the vampire could see a lot better in the dark than a mere human could. "Is everything okay?"

"Can we not do this?" Xander sighed, "No offense-actually, yes offense. If you weren't evil I wouldn't be so offended that you are now asking me about my well being."

"I'm not evil now."

"Supposedly."

"Nights like this makes me really wish I didn't have a soul."

"Right back at you, pal. Please unhand me."

Except Angel didn't unhand him. He did the weird sniffing thing and Xander tried to get his arm back but he wasn't a Slayer so vamp strength actually worked on him. For the second time tonight he was at the mercy of a man who was stronger than he was, and for the second time he made a promise to himself to work out. He was too old to be this helpless.

"You're hurt," Angel said, "You're bleeding."

"Yeah. You're not going to suck me dry or something cliche like that, right?"

"Did you run into something?" Translation: is there a creature in my cemetery that also doubles as a front yard/back yard/stomping grounds?

And it was only because he was cold and tired that he snapped, "None of your damn business."

Angel liked baiting Xander as much as the other way around, so he said, "What? You need me and Buffy to take care of the scary monsters for you? Doesn't it bother you that you're constantly playing a damsel in distress?"

"Goodnight, Angel."

"You're still hurt. You're not going anywhere. And aren't you cold?"

"I'm not that hurt."

Angel looked like he was barely repressing the urge to roll his eyes and he lifted Xander's shirt. Xander tried to pull it back down but eventually stopped trying to scrabble at the immortal man's hand. He looked off into the night and wished Buffy would keep a tighter leash on her tame vampire.

After a long moment, Angel let his shirt back down. "How are you walking? You know your ribs are broken."

"Really?" That wasn't surprising, but somehow the knowledge seemed to make his chest hurt more.

Angel's voice got softer. He was being babied, and he hated that. "Xander, man, who did this to you?"

"Don't _man_ me," Xander said, crossing his arms over his torso. Yup. His ribs were broken. Stupid dad. Stupid staircase. "We're not friends."

"You've got some really old scars."

"Goodnight, Angel."

"Xander..."

"Please don't tell Buffy," Xander muttered, hating that he was asking this thing for any sort of favor. "Or Giles."

"If someone's doing this to you, we can help."

Xander was already walking away, trying to be grateful that Nicco was going to put him up for the night but mostly wishing it was caring Willow. Wishing it was Jesse, who knew, who understood, "Unfortunately, Angel, not every bad guy crawls out of the Hellmouth."

.***.

The night that Giles found Xander bleeding and burned in the library, he insisted on taking him to the hospital and Xander swore he'd run away. "Come on, Giles, I know you can patch me up yourself. The hospital has to report stuff like this."

"Obviously we're going to report your parents, Xander. This is abuse. And it's absolutely absurd that nothing has been done about it before."

"Nah," Xander said, trying for casual even as he hissed when Giles probed his hand. His father had held it to the burner after he'd ruined the anniversary dinner, and had ignored Xander as he screamed and screamed. His mother had stood to the side and told him it was all his fault, he was lazy and disrespectful and worthless. "I gotta graduate. There's only four months left."

"Life doesn't have to be like this," Giles said. He was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Xander, one-lining, grinning, clumsy Xander, had a body littered with scars and a self-esteem so low he truly believed he deserved the parents he had been dealt.

Xander took his hands back, "This summer I'll get a job. And I'm working next year. I'll be able to move out...soon, hopefully. But I really need this diploma, Giles. I really want to graduate high school. That sounds stupid, doesn't it?"

"On the contrary," Giles said, getting out burn cream and knowing it wouldn't be enough. He didn't want Xander to lose dexterity in his hand, and burns were notorious for infection, "It sounds extremely mature. Not many would put up with this lifestyle in order to go to school."

"Well," Xander shrugged, "The people aren't half bad either." He grinned up at Giles and then hastily turned his head, masking his burning cheeks with a cough. "I mean, it took me eighteen years to have enough friends to require two hands to count them. I figure that's worth a few bruises."

Giles leaned forward, poking his glasses up his nose in a way that was so familiar that Xander felt his shoulders relax. "You know, it's not supposed to be an either-or situation. Friends or safety. Companionship or your well-being. As a teenager, you are generally entitled to both."

"I know that. And it's really great to have it pointed out, thanks."

"Please," Giles looked at Xander's hand and it hurt. Like it hurt to send Buffy out on patrol every evening. But this was worse-he could justify the Slayer, know it was necessary for mankind. He didn't understand senseless abuse of a teenager who, yes, was infuriating, but was also intelligent and protective and brave. And because he didn't understand he couldn't explain it. "Please, let me report these people."

"I can't. I'm almost eighteen. I'm too old."

Giles took the unburned hand and, impulsively, put his house key in it. "Then let us take care of you."

Xander looked at the key and up at the librarian. He knew he wasn't Giles's favorite (that was Buffy, it was _supposed_ to be Buffy, they were like father and daughter) or even his second favorite (very obviously Willow, but who couldn't love her big beautiful eyes?) In fact, he'd always suspected that he was rather far down on the list of things Giles cared about, after the possibility of the return of Angelus, which flavor of tea he would have this afternoon, and whether or not Wesley would accidentally kill his Slayer. But this key was proof to otherwise, wasn't it? "Giles...I really am too old to be taken care of."

When the librarian didn't say anything, just hummed a non-response and kept dabbing at the blistering hand, Xander continued, "You'll...you'll get sick of me. I'm good in small doses." Everyone had said that at one point or another. Even Buffy. Even Willow. It was why he'd always tried to make himself scarce.

Strong arms came around his shoulders and Xander was finally, finally, pulled into a hug. Once he was in the tweed-clad arms, he cried like he hadn't cried in years, since Jesse's funeral. He cried because he could, because of course, they were on the Hellmouth. There were Masters and Mayors and homicidal boyfriends to worry about. His everyday Lifetime drama was small potatoes in comparison, and yet he was being treated as if his feelings mattered, as if people cared that he was burned and beaten.

"Thank you," Xander muttered into Giles's shoulder.

"Oh, my boy," Giles sighed, his heart tearing to pieces at how _lost_ this teenager sounded. "Tell me what more I can do."

This was enough. Knowing someone cared was enough. And Xander kept crying and Giles swore, as he got increasingly soggy, that he would change things. "I've only got the one key," he said, trying to pick the right words, trying to remember what it was like to be seventeen and male and too old to ask for help and too young to be truly independent. "You'll have to stay at my place tonight. I'll make a copy in the morning."

"All right," Xander wiped at his face, already regretting the tears. He was currently the definition of needy. "Sorry about all of this."

"_All of this_, Xander, is why I became a teacher."

"You're a librarian," Xander pointed out, "And you're really a Watcher. You're supposed to be saving the world."

"What would be the point of saving the world," Giles asked, "If I let my students be hurt in their homes? There is no sense in fighting the supernatural forces of darkness if we can't combat common evil in our own homes."

Xander nodded. It sounded like good theory, but he couldn't help but add, "Except I'm not all that important. I'm not the Chosen One or even a little witch in training. I'm nothing."

Giles stood up, setting the First Aid kit aside. He looked old, and strained. "Come with me," he said, "I'd like to prove you wrong."

Wary, but undeniably curious, Xander followed him out into the rising dawn.

**.***.**

**all this is a kind-of companion to our other Buffy story, "Down Will Come," which is about Giles seeing the signs of abuse in Xander. we wanted to explore multiple character's points of view, especially Xander as he deals with physical and emotional abuse. we wanted to know why he would try to hide it.**

**please remember, no matter how impossible the situation seems, whether it's a boyfriend, girlfriend, parent, or authority figure, abuse can be escaped by communicating with outside help services like the National Domestic Violence hotline (the hotline dot org, no spaces.) abuse is never okay. you are worth it. please, please find the courage to reach out for help.**

**also, it is always extremely rewarding to hear what you think. dropping us a review makes the day brighter.**


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